Interests
by xerious
Summary: A part of him deep down inside, a part of Benjamin Barker, the man he’d once been, pitied her.


**A/N:** Wrote this a while ago out of boredom. Once again, I find myself bored, so I decided to post this while waiting for creativity to strike once more. Enjoy.

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They all deserved to die. Every single one of them, for every man had sinned.

Sweeney stood at the open window, gingerly polishing one of his razors as he stared down at the early-risers walking the street and going about their daily business. All of them had the same routine and Sweeney no longer took any real interest in them anymore. None of them could satisfy the need for vengeance, and not one of them could bring his Lucy back. As far as he was concerned, they were only good for the business, and that too, he was losing interest in. Frankly, he didn't care if Mrs. Lovett's shop survived or not. He didn't care about her, or the boy, or _anything._ All he cared about was the Judge and the moment he would stop drawing breath.

Shifting his gaze from the window to the blade in his hand, Sweeney scowled. _Wait,_ she had said. _Good things come to those who wait._

Sweeney was done waiting. For fifteen years he'd waited. For _fifteen years_ he'd sat in prison, convicted on false charges and longing to see his wife and child, and now—And now Lucy was dead and Johanna was locked away.

He would have no more of this _waiting_.

Closing the blade in his hand, Sweeney tucked it away safely in the holster at his hip and lifted his gaze once more to look out at those wandering below. The shop would not open for another hour, and Sweeney felt himself growing impatient. Business had been slow lately, and for a while he'd started to wonder if people were starting to suspect foul play. It was not as if customers had stopped visiting all together, though, so he had dismissed the thought.

"Grocer," the barber muttered, and almost as if on cue, the grocer from the shop across the way came around the side of the building, wheeling in his produce for the day, as he did every day at eight in the morning. Sweeney knew, because every day, he'd watched him. The grocer and the flower vendor and Mrs. Moony and—

And the beggar. She was the only interesting one left anymore. Sweeney never knew when she was going to show up, because each time was never the same. Sometimes she didn't show up at all. Sweeney hardly found it surprising. She was a beggar, and a harlot, after all. Everyone else appeared at the same time every morning of every day to do the same thing they did the morning before. It was as if they knew how to do nothing else, as if they had been set up to repeat their actions—like clockwork.

But the beggar—the beggar was different. She never appeared in the same place and she never spoke to the same people and she was never there at a specific time. As a matter of fact, the only thing that remained the same about her was her clothing. She always wore a hat pulled low to hide her face, and a faded, tattered dress, more or less reduced to rags.

Almost curiously, Sweeney stepped closer to the window and peered down, looking for her. His eyes swept over the traffic in the street, glancing back and forth for a familiar, brown hat, and just as he was about to give up, he found her. It was unusual for her to wander in front of the shop, as Nellie often shooed her away after more than a few moments—but there she was in her frayed dress and her flimsy hat, her posture somewhat hunched and drawn in, and her head bowed. She never lifted her head. Sweeney had never seen her face.

"She must be occupied," the barber said to himself when he noticed that Mrs. Lovett had done nothing to get rid of the woman roaming back and forth in front of her shop.

"Hm." Sweeney merely shrugged and kept watching her. "...Who will you speak to today, woman?"

Sweeney had once considered giving her a name. Something simple, easy to remember. On a day when business had been lacking, Sweeney'd mentioned something to Mrs. Lovett about how no one knew her name and she had laughed. She told him that her name was of no importance to anybody because, she was, after all, only nothing. No one _cared_ to know her name, and well, if he was going to give her a name then he might as well invite her in for some ale and a pie while he was at it because he was only going to become attached and he would start to care for her well-being and what would everyone think of Sweeney Todd helping a poor, useless woman, she had said.

That had been the end of it. Sweeney didn't care about anything or anyone – not Mrs. Lovett, not Tobias, and certainly not the beggar woman, and "the beggar woman" she remained.

"Hm," Sweeney hummed to himself, and when he looked out the window once more he found that she'd already moved to the other side of the street, wandering back and forth and stopping gentleman, highborn and low. Most of them paid her no mind.

"Alms," she repeated to each of them, holding out her hands for any pennies they might drop. Still, no one seemed to notice her, and when she realized she would get nothing, she crossed the street again to beg in front of Mrs. Lovett's once more.

"Please," she said quickly, desperate, and reaching out, she took hold on a passing man's elbow in hopes of stopping him.

"Please, I'll take anything you've--,"

"Get off!" the man barked loudly and tore his arm away. The beggar woman shrank away from his yelling and tripped over the ends of her dress, falling to the pavement with a quiet cry.

"Oh," Sweeney said quietly, and for the briefest moment, he frowned. Some part of him felt bad for her. A part of him deep down inside, a part of_ Benjamin Barker,_ the _man he'd once been,_ pitied her. A part of him that, as far as he was concerned, didn't even exist anymore.

Sweeney ignored it and kept watching.

For a few long moments, the woman sat where she had fallen, fingers fiddling with the torn edges of her dress. She shook her head once, and then twice more and Sweeney imagined she was speaking nonsense to herself, as she usually did. Slowly, she began to rock, and the barber leaned in curiously, resting one hand on the pane of the window.

"No," she was saying. "No, no. He'll be coming soon now, he will. He'll be coming, he'll--," and she tapered off. Sweeney tilted his head as he watched her shake, her muttered words just barely reaching his ears. Something about them struck him oddly and his brows furrowed as he looked down at her.

_She's crying._

Sweeney's lips parted almost as if he was about to say something, but instead, he swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the beggar woman, downfallen on the sidewalk below.

"He'll be coming here again," she muttered, and slowly, she began to lift her head. Sweeney blinked, brows furrowing further at her sudden actions. This was unlike her, he thought, to show her face to everyone. Rarely did she lift her head higher than her own shoulders, and she almost never made eye contact with anyone. Sweeney knew. He'd never seen her face. He'd never really _wanted _to.

Until now.

The beggar continued to lift her chin, and the higher she raised her head the faster the barber's heart began to beat. It was strange, and Sweeney couldn't say that he was open to the sudden excitement and extreme curiosity that had filled him in the last few moments.

"He'll be coming here again," she repeated, and her words were so quiet that they were almost whispered. Sweeney still heard them.

"Home again..." She breathed, and she opened her eyes, her head tilted back and her face upturned towards the sky.

Sweeney's heart stopped and he froze.

He knew those words.

_He knew those eyes._

"..._Lucy_."

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**A/N:** Please review?


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